


Saudade

by Hel be praised (Silvertounge)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jim Has Issues, M/M, Pining, Space Husbands, Vulnerable Spock, marriage issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 03:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17614562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvertounge/pseuds/Hel%20be%20praised
Summary: It is difficult to discuss the past and everything he has lost. Spock has found that sometimes it is necessary to discuss what is difficult, especially if he can help a friend.Spock prime POV





	Saudade

**Author's Note:**

> Saudade is a Portuguese word that refers to the feeling of longing for something or someone that you love which is lost. It carries with it the repressed knowledge that the object of longing may never return and was once described as "the love that remains" after someone is gone.

“Did the me in your time try to explain Surak as ‘Vulcan Buddha’?”

Spock paused for a moment in what he was doing to gather himself. Even here, so far out of his own time, James T. Kirk had the ability to make him stumble with his off-balancing questions.

He turned to Jim with a raised eyebrow, and the expression was rewarded with a burst of warm laughter that the human part of him longed to bask in.

It had truly been a long time since Spock had heard Jim laugh. The sound was both familiar and new. This Jim’s voice hadn’t aged to a low gravel and he could hear the youth in the sound ringing out around them.

“I do not believe you ever referred to Surak in such a way.” Spock straightened his posture and clasped his hands behind his back in an effort to stifle the illogical urge to smooth out the little cowlicks springing up from Jim’s hair.

While they may have looked the same and spoken the same, the man before him was not his bondmate. Spock’s bondmate was lost to him and to time, gone when in this reality he was not.

“Damn,” Jim uncrossed his legs and allowed them to dangle over the edge of the table he was seated on, “I did that today and I thought that Spock,” he cut himself off, “well my Spock was going to have an aneurysm.”

“He did not appreciate your joke?”

“Noope,” the p popped out of his mouth playfully, “You know when you’re mad you get this little twitch above your left eyebrow? A really small thing only noticeable if you’re really looking.”

He did indeed know, his own bondmate had told him of the small flaw often, “Were you looking for it?”

Jim smiled serenely, “Maybe,” he shrugged languidly, “I only realized he was annoyed when he told me to ‘explain my hypothesis’,” Jim’s very human eyes—blue like the oceans of his planet and so different from his Jim’s warm hazel—met his, “he only does that when he’s—”

“Annoyed with the story being told, otherwise he would tell you to continue or merely wait silently for you to finish.”

The open mouth look of shock on Jim’s face was enough to cause the corner of his mouth to rise, “We are, in a sense, the same person. My own bondmate told me often of my flaws and tells.”

Jim nodded, rubbing his fingers together slowly. The action was something unfamiliar to Spock, and he postulated—from extensive observation—that it was something this Jim did when he was deep in thought. His own bondmate had never made such a motion, similar feelings in his bondmate had been expressed by a faraway look and rhythmic tapping of his right foot.

It was just another example of how the man before him could be so similar and yet so different from the one he had known.

“Spock?” The tone of voice he used, unlike his body mannerisms, was entirely familiar to Spock. He knew that he would have no choice but to answer whatever it was Jim asked of him. That unsure tone of voice had always been his undoing.

“Yes?”

“How did,” he watched Jim’s still form carefully, “how did you cope when I died?”

“May I inquire as to why you feel the need to ask this?” Spock wasn’t truly concerned for Jim’s safety. He knew that this question wasn’t coming from a desire for death, but the question had indeed caught him off guard, “I can think of no logical reason why this information would be pertinent.”

He was once again grateful that Jim—in an effort to help his younger self grieve—had spent so much time studying Vulcan. The toneless cadence of Spock’s voice combined with his choice of words might have come out as sharp to others, but Jim only shrugged and accepted Spock’s words for the simple question they were.

“The expedition to the last planet we explored went,” Jim's palm pressed over the newly healed wound on his side unconsciously, “disastrously. I don’t remember much of it obviously. I just,” he licked his lips eyes darting about, “well I know that I died for a bit, Bones had to bring me back.”

Spock tilted his head in acknowledgment of Jim’s words, “The events happened as you remember. However, now you are safe and there is no logical reason to dwell on the idea of your own passing. To do so would be overtly emotional and possibly interfere with your mental and emotional wellbeing.”

“Aren’t emotions something to be repressed?”

“It is a common and accepted practice for Vulcans to repress their emotions,” Spock pursed his lips, “but it is not common for humans. In fact, the repression of emotions in humans often leads to adverse effects on the human’s physical and mental wellbeing.”

“Alright, alright,” Jim waved his hands at Spock to cut him off, “no need to break my arm over it.”

“I have never engaged in any such activity with your perso—”

“ _Spock_.” the exasperation in Jim's voice was exactly what he’d been hoping for and Spock could see the moment Jim knew he’d been played, “You knew exactly what I meant.”

“I did indeed.” Spock collected his thoughts quickly and spoke again before Jim could say anything further, “If you are not deeply affected by the circumstances of the last mission, then I can only logically conclude that you have asked me such a personal question on the basis of Spock being effected by the mission.”

“I can feel it,” Jim gestured toward his temple close to where his meld points were, “through our bond. It’s constantly in my head, this annoying little buzz that just,” Jim let out a deep burst of air too violent to be a sigh, “won’t go away.” He opened his hands pleadingly, “Spock hasn’t slept in a couple days, he just says he needs to meditate. He hasn’t melded with me or really spoken to me since I woke up.”

“His actions distress you. It is only logical that you would feel this way. Bondmates are not meant to keep themselves cut off from each other.” Spock remembered being so young and so insecure of his place in the world. He tried so hard to be Vulcan and could never find an acceptable balance between human and Vulcan. The addition of a human bondmate to the mix would have been…. _stressful_. The emotions the younger Spock must have felt in regard to Jim’s accident would have shamed him at that age.

“I’m just….I never thought about the future, not that far ahead at least.” The look of pain in Jim’s eyes was staggering, “No matter how old I am when I die Spock is going to be so young, possibly barely middle aged for a Vulcan. He’s going to have years and years of a broken bond to suffer through.”

Something in Jim’s voice alarmed Spock greatly.

Spock had a hypothesis, only tested by two universes, that all the James T Kirks in every universe were fundamentally the same. Just as all Spocks were fundamentally the same. There had been a conversation once, when he had first bonded with his Jim, that had reflected the feelings he could see on Jim’s face now.

“I can assure you,” Spock allowed himself to rest his hands on Jim’s shoulders, their skin separated by the thick fabric of his uniform, “that breaking your bond with Spock will do substantial harm.”

“I don’t know anymore. It’s not like we bonded normally anyway,” Jim’s bright eyes wouldn’t look up from his lap, “it was pon-farr. He needed someone, and I was the only one foolish enough to volunteer.”

“There is no logic to your thoughts.” Spock held his hand up when Jim tried to protest, “Peace. Take no offense where none is ment.”

Jim nodded her sullen acceptance, and he was grateful that this Jim was still young enough to easily accept commands from those close to him. If Spock had given such commands to his own bondmate he might have taken Spock’s head off in retaliation. He can picture the indignation and annoyance in Jim’s hazel eyes clearly and the very idea of it causes warmth to pool up in his side, near where his heart stull stubbornly beats.

“I can tell you from experience,” Spock was old enough now that the embarrassment of talking of such things had long since faded, “that Spock would not have accepted just anyone for his pon-farr,” he’d seen the disastrous results of a pairing that was not backed by an already existing bond, “there is a reason Vulcans establish bonds so early on in life. If he had not accepted  _you_  he may have killed you, he would have seen you as another male challenging him for a mate.”

Jim deflated before his eyes, shoulders stooping in on themselves protectively, “I just have no idea what to do. I never wanted to cause him this much distress.”

Even without a bond, he could see Jim’s emotions clearly, and illogically cursed his younger self for things that were out of his control.

Kai’idth. What is. Is. He must let the emotions pass, and keep his thoughts rational.

“I can tell you,” Spock kept the emotions that fought for dominance suppressed, “that when my bondmate died I experienced the greatest sorrow I had ever known in my life. I do not think that I will ever again experience such a thing.” He had, illogically, never considered Jim’s death until it was upon him. “The broken bond was like a wound in my mind. My physiology changed as well, even though I was comparatively young when he died I have not experienced a pon-farr since.”

The agonized line of Jim’s lips in response to his words cut Spock illogically deep. Even though the man before him was not  _his_  Jim, not the man he’d run around the stars side by side with: Spock felt Jim’s pain as his own, “I can, however, tell you that even knowing the agony of his death and the pain of having my own mind feel empty to me, I would never willingly choose another path. I would choose him again and again. I would feel that pain endlessly in exchange for the time that I was allowed to spend with him.”

“But would he have chosen that for you?”

The question enraged Spock, and no matter what angle he looked at it from he could find no logical reason for such a reaction.

Would Jim have chosen that for him? He did not know.

“It does not matter,” it was through sheer force of control that he kept his feelings from showing in his voice, “you must allow me—” he stopped, “allow  _him_  the autonomy to choose such a thing for himself.”

“Even if it hurts him?”

Spock nodded slowly, “Kadi’ith. What is, is. We are allowed true connection so very rarely. I would find it highly illogical for anyone to sequester themselves off from the world for the fear of being hurt by it.”

Jim looked so unsure; he was a far sight from the normally confident unstoppable captain. Here was yet another difference between his Jim and the one before him. His Jim had never been hurt so deeply by life, he’d only known love and support whereas the Jim before him had faced challenged that left wounds too deep to have yet fully healed.

“I don’t want to be the thing that breaks him.”

“He will not break. He will adapt. I think of Jim every day, there is hardly a moment where I do not miss him, but I am still fulfilled by the life I have left to me.”

“What should I do?”

Spock allows Jim a true smile, “Force me to talk to you. Do not allow me to break apart from you because I fear my own emotions. I remember at his age that I was shamed by anything that made me seem too human. He is no doubt warring with that and his perceived inability to protect his bondmate.”

Jim sighed slowly, “Thank you.” Those blue eyes finally met his, “I’m sorry to have….made you think about my death.”

“The cause was sufficient. What is necessary is never illogical Jim.”

Jim wrapped his arms around Spock tightly, startling him. He allowed himself—in a moment of pure weakness—to return the gesture, careful to keep any of their skin from touching. The friendship of this Jim was his to cherish, but the thoughts and feelings of the Jim currently in his arms belonged to another.

“Go. Make him see the effects his illogical actions have had on you.”

Spock watched Jim leave with a determined set to his shoulders and couldn’t quell a feeling of gratitude. He could remember every detail of his own Jim down to the smell of his hair early in the morning. The grief he felt from thinking about Jim’s death and all of the things he could never regain or see again was overshadowed by the hope that in this Universe, Jim and Spock would have more time than he had had with his own Jim.

He’d shared something with Jim that could never be replicated, and any universe where James T. Kirk had no Spock was a universe Spock never wanted to experience.


End file.
